A Good Man
by BlackBandit111
Summary: Donovan has seen many things and experienced many situations, but she's never been in an abusive relationship before- especially not with a man who thinks that he can keep doing it when she's ended it. And she's definitely never seen Sherlock act like the good man everyone claims he is. No slash. NOT SallyxSherlock.
1. Chapter 1

_**Hello, fanfictioners! This popped into my head one day when I wanted to give Sally Donovan and Sherlock a good side. I don't ship them together (but I'm not bashing the pairing, we all have our interests) but I dunno. No slash, no relationship, just good old people-doing-good-things for each other. Okay. Hope you enjoy the read!**_

* * *

Sally Donovan was a competent cop. She had been top of her class when she graduated, had been made Sergeant Donovan in a flash, and had gotten herself out of a bad neighbourhood. She had dealt with racism against her skin color, sexism against her gender and general scorn for what she was trying to accomplish for herself.

She knew the ins and outs of men; let them talk about themselves and, if needed, shed a tear or two. It came with her job and her gender, and even if she was competent, she wasn't stupid. Her pride may not have allowed her to mooch terribly, but her cleverness was more than willing to let her sit back a while and let men handle mundane things.

Don't get her wrong; Sally was by no means lazy. She merely knew how much she was capable of.

But for all of her experience, she'd never been in the situation she suddenly found herself in. She'd never been in an abusive relationship before that time.

She had finally found someone she thought was a good man- a nice, study, honest man to even settle down with and maybe marry. Rose colored glasses did wonders to disguise who people really were, Sally supposed. He had seemed nearly perfect at the time. But then, her life had been in shambles, torn apart by guilt of the death of an innocent genius; Anderson had quit; she had lost faith at the Yard, and Lestrade barely looked at her anymore.

The first time he raised a hand to her, she ended it. Her gut screamed at her that this was the right thing to do, and no matter when nor where, Sally always listened to her gut, wrong or right. She left him, grabbing all of her stuff on the way out and not daring to look back.

Sally Donovan knew what he had done was against the law. She was a competent cop. But she was also a prideful woman who was already working in a testosterone infested field, and could handle herself fine. She didn't want to fathom the looks on her colleagues faces- least of all her boss's- should she, one of the only woman at the Yard as a Sergeant, admit that a man had struck her. She figured no one had to know about her blunder of dating him in the first place, and was content.

The only evidence there ever had been a skirmish was the strange fist shaped bruise on her cheek, but it was easily dismissed as an accident- she had been standing behind someone and they had swung their arms. Simple, believable, to the point. Even Sherlock Holmes didn't comment, though he did eye it suspiciously. She didn't care; what could The Freak actually say that anyone would believe about good, faithful, steadfast Sally Donovan?

She hadn't expected her- frankly- idiotic ex boyfriend to remember what she did for a living, because when they dating, he sure as hell couldn't remember where she lived. But somehow Joshua had made the connection that, because he had not been arrested for hitting a woman- a policeman, no less- he was going to get away with it continuously.

Perhaps he thought it actually wasn't against the law as a result, or perhaps he really was just that stupid.

There had been another murder in an alley on Joshua's street, about three houses down from his. Sally was too preoccupied by the actual scene to notice. The Freak was there with his flatmate doctor, dancing around the body with childish glee written all over his face. She was standing by the opening to the street, seeing as the small space was beyond cramped with the forensics and photographers. She had not expected the fist that suddenly filled her vision, followed a millisecond later by the searing pain that erupted in her cheek and nose.

She flew to the ground, landing painfully on her back. The wind rushed from her lungs, and she gasped desperately for air as she threw her hands up to instinctually cover her face, anticipating another blow.

It never fell.

Her eyes snapped open as the sound of a scuffle started up to her right; there was a low, baritone snarl, followed by a grunt. The ringing in her ears drowned out anything she could have assumed by this and replaced it with nonsense noise. She could hear shouts, but couldn't see anything; the world was still incredibly blurry. Did she hit her head when she fell, or was she truly punched that hard?

When she managed to focus her gaze, her lips parted and a gasped escaped. Her eyes widened.

Sherlock was being pried off of Joshua, who lay motionless, bleeding, and spread eagle upon the pavement. Donovan could see the swelling on his entire face from where she still lay, his nose bleeding languidly and a gash on his cheek oozing. She blinked slowly, swinging her gaze to the consulting detective.

Sherlock didn't look all that bad, besides a nicely bruising eye beginning to form as well as a small cut on his cheek that was just starting to bleed. His chest was heaving and his eyes were bright as he broke free from Lestrade's and John's holds, rushing towards her.

On instinct, she cringed, but where she expected cruelty she found none; instead, there were gentle hands on her elbows, helping to softly pull her to her feet. Once he was sure that she was fully upright and not about to fall over, The Freak released her.

"Are you alright?" He asked, and his voice sounded strange to Sally's ears. Garbled, maybe? "I said 'are you alright'?!"

She cleared her throat but didn't dare nod. "Yes, fine- I think."

He sighed, clenching his jaw. "Your head's bleeding- mild concussion and some head trauma, probably. You were thrown to the ground hard, and your head made a rather firm impact with the concrete."

Through her foggy mind, she couldn't help but think that his scornful comments, when not directed _at_ her, were rather amusing.

She swallowed, wide brown eyes turning to his own cobalt blue. "Why'd you do that?" She asked, and if she sounded breathless or a little choked up, it wasn't for anyone to remark about.

Sherlock sniffed, snapping his coat collar up. "Because," he answered evenly, eyes glinting in the dim light, "A man isn't meant to raise a hand to a woman."

Before she could even call out to him, he was off the scene.

* * *

Joshua Michael Abrams was arrested on the charge of assault. Sally Donovan booked him and read him his rights, trying and failing not smirk as he hit his head against the edge of the squad car. And if she hissed some rather unprofessional profanities into his ear as she pushed him in, Lestrade decided it wasn't worth the paperwork. Or so he told himself.

* * *

John couldn't understand.

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't have a moral compass; he did, but most of the time it was rather...broad. Socially, he wasn't very adept, either, but John figured that that was a different battle than the one he'd just witnessed.

Sherlock had been deducing the hell out of the scene- like always- until he abruptly stiffened, face contorting into that of absolute loathing, lips pursed and brows drawn down firmly on his forehead. John didn't even have the time to open his mouth to inquire about what was the matter before Sherlock was a whirlwind of action, throwing himself out of the alley and immediately tackling a man to the ground.

John tore after him, for even if it was a small alley, it was long as hell. Legs pumping and adrenaline racing, he screeched to a stop at the display before him.

Sherlock was rolling around in the street, punching and hitting anything within his reach with astounding accuracy. The man under him had absolutely no chance to escape under Sherlock's barrage of blows, only grunting as he tried to roll the consulting detective over. Sherlock was pinned under the other man's weight but slid out from under him before he could actually throw a punch. Kicking him to the ground again, Sherlock went back to his attack, face set in a permanent snarl and a growl ripping its way from his throat.

Rushing forwards, John grabbed one of Sherlock's whirling arms as Lestrade grabbed the other and together they both pried- literally pried, because Sherlock refused to let go- him off the other man, who lay motionless. John's heart was in his throat- what if Sherlock killed him?!

A whimper put his mind at ease.

"Sherlock! What the bloody hell?!" Lestrade yelled, face a mask of fury and spit flying. Sherlock tore himself from their grips and ran to the sidewalk, John tracking his movement with furrowed brows as Lestrade continued his rant, throwing up his hands.

Sherlock knelt beside a fallen Sally Donovan.

With a tenderness John never thought Sherlock Holmes could possess, he steadily diagnosed her and asked her if she was alright, setting her on her feet and gently brushing the dust and concrete particles off her clothes. Sally could only stand there and sway, staring wide eyed at the detective. John thought he saw the flicker of a smile.

"Why'd you do that?" Donovan whispered, and Sherlock's face grew a dangerous shadow across it as his expression darkened.

"Because," he responded evenly, popping his coat collar up, "a man isn't meant to raise a hand to a woman."

John knew a cue to leave when he received one, and with a departing look for Lestrade, they hailed a cab.

Sherlock was silent and staring vacantly out the window for the entire ride, and John sat motionless, his hands in his lap. He opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say or even how to state his question.

He didn't have to.

"You have questions." The baritone voice was measured, blank.

John felt something hot lick his insides. "Yes, I bloody well have questions! What was that? What the hell were you doing?! Do you even have any idea what could happen to you because of that, Sherlock?!"

Sherlock scoffed, spindly fingers twining themselves together as he placed them in his own lap. "Come on, John, use your head. You see, but you don't observe-"

"Don't give me that! What were you thinking?!"

"If you wouldn't interrupt, perhaps I could enlighten you!" Sherlock said sternly, eyes flashing in a display of momentary anger. John clenched his fists, grinding his teeth, but remained silent. Sherlock took a deep breath. "I saw him strike Donovan," he sneered, and John had to resist raising his eyebrows from the sheer disgust in his friend's voice, "and reacted. There. Enough?"

John huffed. "Well, no, frankly," John deadpanned, "why did you react like...that? There were plenty of officers, you didn't have to nearly beat the man to dea-"

But as soon as the taxi had stopped, Sherlock had launched himself away, and John was left to pay the fare.

* * *

**_Okay. There's an epilogue too, so stay tuned! :) Thank you for reading and please leave me a comment on your thoughts!_**

**_Also, I know that abuse between couples is completely serious, and for anyone experiencing anything, please, don't keep it to yourself. It's not fair and it's not right. Or maybe just talk to someone- I'm here, but obviously you don't need to talk to me- but if you do, I'm here. Okay. Right. So. Yep. Thanks. :)_**


	2. Chapter 2

_**Hello, viewers! Thank you for your patience and all your lovely reviews- I appreciate them! This idea was actually based off my headcanon BEFORE SEASON 3 which I liked so much I had to go on. Okay. Hope you enjoy the chapter!**_

* * *

Sherlock had not spoken about it in a week, and there had been no cases in that time, meaning Sherlock moped around or played his violin absently, completely ignoring John and being colder than usual. John had attempted to broach the subject of that night with Donovan again, but everytime Sherlock had glared at him and retreated to his room. John was sure that the neighbours were complaining about the screeching of violin to the police, but Lestrade had yet to show up.

John was almost relieved to see the black car parked outside 221 Baker Street, almost jumping as he threw on his coat and told Sherlock he was going out. Sherlock didn't even look up from the notes he was plucking.

The ride was silent to the Diagnoses Club, the driver only biding John farewell after he had opened the door for him. John walked into the eerily silent offices with slight trepidation, resisting the urge to fidget as he was shown to Mycroft's room. God knew the last thing he should do was offer physical cues of his discomfort, but then, Mycroft could probably figure it out anyway.

"Doctor Watson. A pleasure." The dry voice of the elder Holmes brother echoed from the doorway, and John suppressed a flinch. It sounded like a shout in the previously quiet room.

"Yeah, hi, Mycroft," he said curtly, curling his fists. Mycroft's upper lip twitched slightly, but it was gone so fast that John was almost positive he imagined it.

"Please, do sit down and make yourself comfortable. I daresay this will be a rather lengthy conversation."

John forced himself to take a few deep breaths as he accepted the suggestion. It wouldn't do to lose his temper and be thrown out before Mycroft answered any of his questions. "Right. Well, I'm here to ask about-"

"Sherlock behavior a week ago, regarding an abusive partner to one Sally Donovan," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, taking a seat across from John and placing his intertwined fingers upon the desk between them. "Yes. I know."

John pursed his lips. "Right. Course you do. Anyway. Uh. Why exactly did Sherlock, y'know, act like that? React like that? There were plenty of people to handle the situation, and Sherlock just.." John trailed off, lowering his gaze slightly.

Mycroft's lips turned up into a rather insincere smile. "Well John, I thought it was fairly obvious, if one observed and concluded," he stated, and John rolled his eyes.

"God, the Holmes family will be the death of me," he muttered. "Just give me a straight answer to I can leave."  
If Mycroft was perturbed by John's short answer, it didn't show. John could finally believe the Iceman could be a politician, his demeanor unfaltering. "In due time."

John's jaw clenched and something burning crawled out of his throat. "Due time? Due time?! Are you kidding, Mycroft?! Sod this. Just sod it. Tell me, now, or I swear to God I will punch you in the face."

Mycroft still calmly sat there, but he slumped, like he was suddenly exhausted. John blinked; how much energy did it take to keep up the facade of coolness? Mycroft rubbed at his eyes. "Our story is a long one," he started, and John settled into his chair more comfortably, satisfied that Mycroft was going to get the point now, "and not a particularly happy one. Sherlock was...oh, I'd say around five or six when it had happened the first time. Obviously he didn't understand at his age- too young, even if my brother was exceptionally brilliant- but then, of course, it continued, and was undeniable at the time."

John's brows furrowed, but Mycroft held up a hand for silence. "My father was never extremely caring," he said, his tone careful, "nor was he very concerned for my brother's- nor my own- well being. He was an avid drinker and often got himself too intoxicated to think clearly, much less walk straight." Mycroft wiped under his eyes again, pressing a hand to his forehead. "My mother, however, was incredibly compassionate- she loved life and all the things in it, and dealt with my father's wrongdoings and faults stupendously while providing adequate care of Sherlock and I."

He took a deep breath. "As I said, Sherlock was around five the first time my father raised a hand to my mother. She had shielded me from my father's wrath and took the brunt of it." Mycroft smiled, but it was bitter. "Sherlock had wept, having witnessed it. He continuously asked, "Mummy, why are you crying?"" He huffed. "She said that it was because a man wasn't supposed to hit a woman, and that it was a very wrong thing to do. Sherlock, having been an amazingly intelligent five year old boy, took this to mean that his father had been naughty, and went to go scold him for it."

John felt his heart seize in his chest. Mycroft took a deep breath. "I found him in the closet, trapped in the dark, some odd hours later. My mother had been knocked unconscious by my father, and thus was the reason she was not looking for him."

John gulped. "And then?"

Mycroft's face contorted into something akin to a grimace. "Downhill from there, I'm afraid. My father tried to beat Sherlock and my mother stepped in for it, and I sometimes took her place if she was too weak or injured." He took another deep breath, but it was strangled. "Then Sherlock turned eight, and my mother was beaten to death. My father, having been a rather powerful man of political status, covered it up flawlessly. I do not know if he paid them for their silence or bullied them into submission. Either way, there were no inquiries."  
John was speechless.

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock and I are seven years apart, and I was advanced for my classes. I was preparing to go to University, far from my father's fists and my mother's ghost. Not having been a legal adult, I could not take Sherlock with me." He paused, and appeared to reflect. "I do believe that, above all else, is why Sherlock has hated me for so long. For abandoning him in that house."

John felt anger crash over him like a wave. "You just left him there?!" He hissed. "Alone in an abusive house?! Why didn't you-"

"Tell someone?" Mycroft interrupted again, and John took deep breaths through his nose to calm down his racing heart. "You must understand, John, that at the time, I was only fifteen. I was preparing to remove myself from a terrible situation. I had survived it, and I figured that my father was not so cruel as to attack an eight year old." His face softened. "I regret it," he admitted quietly.

John tried to remain angry. Truly, he did. He tried to rekindle the flames which had been so effectively stamped out and trod on, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't find the energy nor the spite. Not for the naivety that even Mycroft had as a child.

"Sherlock remained in that house alone for three more years, before I could legally adopt him away. When he came to me, he was analytical, unfeeling, and looked like a corpse."

John couldn't help the shudder that rippled through him at the look on Mycroft's face. The Iceman looked chipped.

"He despised me for leaving him in that torturous house, and has ever since. And I don't think he ever fully recovered from watching my mother's death. I think that's why he's so passionate about the way men behave."

Silence descended upon the pair. John shifted in his seat. "I'm-"

"I think you should go, Doctor Watson." Mycroft said, standing swiftly. "And not a soul, or I will destroy both your career and your relationship with my brother and any and all individuals. Are we clear?" Gone was the brother that John had just been exposed to; gone was the vulnerable guilt. The Iceman returned.

John clenched his jaw. "Crystal."

* * *

"Sherlock, I'm home," He announced, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back of his armchair. The flat was dark. Sherlock didn't move from his spot by the window, plucking his strings absently. John could only see the faint line of the tall detective's silhouette. "Hey, Sherlock," he called, but wasn't sure what he was going to say.

Sherlock turned and his eyes danced over John, a bitter smirk crossing his lips. "Mycroft." He stated.

John swallowed, then went over to the light switch and flicked it on. Sherlock's brows knit together, but before he could question or deduce, John explained. "It was just...dark in here. You know?"

Sherlock paused, his mouth opening and closing. A small smile curved the corners of his lips as he nodded. "Yes, it was."

And John knew he didn't fix it. He knew he didn't cure all of the things Sherlock carried, nor all the things Sherlock had gone through.

But he had let Sherlock know that he was here, and willing to talk. And besides; the message Sherlock had carried had served him well.

** "**_Because a man isn't supposed to hit a woman, Sherlock."_

* * *

_**Well. That's that. How was it? Good, bad, somewhere in between? Thanks for reading and leave me a comment on your thoughts!**_


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